Memory Tree Read Free

Dan took hold of Janey and together father and daughter watched as Annie opened the box and removed from it . . .
    â€œOh, Dan, you remembered . . .”
    Janey didn’t hear the rest of her mother’s statement, her excitement filling the windmill.
    â€œMy frog!” Janey exclaimed. “That’s my purple frog!”
    Her voice reverberated inside the empty windmill and then inside her mind. That was when she closed her eyes and awoke in the utter darkness of her room, the wind still howling at the old farmhouse, the images of yesteryear gone.
    â€œMama?” she asked the night.
    But it was as if Annie hadn’t been there, even though Janey was convinced she had been.
    She got up out of bed, gazed out the window to see if the magic from inside the windmill would transfer here, to her home and to the room in which she felt most secure. But all she saw was the early rise of tomorrow over the horizon, just beyond where the windmill loomed, its sails turning forward.
    Not backward.
    Â 
    Â 
    She slept, and then hours later, Janey felt a chill seep into her bones, her little body grabbing at the pillow, hands fruitlessly grabbing at blankets. She stirred, woke, popped up. She was in bed, the blankets pushed all the way to the edge of the bed. Grabbing for the comforter, she snuggled beneath it and sought out warmth she no longer felt.
    â€œMama?” she asked the empty room.
    There was no answer other than the light of morning sneaking in through the window. It should have warmed her, but a chill had swept over the land sometime during the night. She felt tired, as though her sleep had been interrupted, even if she couldn’t remember why. She looked out the window and saw the first flakes of snow she’d seen since last winter.
    Then she reached under the pillow and sought out her steady companion, a stuffed purple frog that had seen better days. She might be ten years old, but that meant so too was he. He’d been a gift on her first Christmas, when she’d been barely two months old. Wait a minute, she thought, looking down at the frog’s silent, sewed grin, how do I know that? And why a stuffed frog? After all these years, she still didn’t know its significance. Either she’d never thought to ask, or her mother had told her and she’d forgotten.
    Unlikely, that second scenario.
    All she knew was that the frog had always been there, constant but unnamed. Back when she was old enough to understand the idea of naming things, she’d refused to give the frog one. People with names only disappeared, like her father had, a man with the name Dan.
    Many things were uncertain for Janey Sullivan, most of all her future.
    For now, though, on this morning when she felt the first chill of the season, she knew one thing was certain: Christmas was coming.

P ART 1
    THE SULLIVAN FAMILY

C HAPTER 1
    B RIAN
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    I n the blink-and-you-miss-it downtown area of tiny Linden Corners there stands a local bar once called Connors’ Corner, now named George’s Tavern after the kind, wise old man who had first welcomed a just-passing-through Brian Duncan to town and who later left the bar in Brian’s care when his own time on earth came to an end. Since then, Brian had honored the traditions George had instilled all those years by running a friendly bar as best he could, and that included knowing when it was time to close up after a long night. He was tired, and tomorrow, a holiday, promised to be exhausting, mostly because he’d volunteered to do the cooking. He flicked a switch on the wall, dimming the lights until just soft yellow bulbs over the long stretch of oak remained. The open room developed a ghostly glow, with only shadows sitting at the empty tables. Except for one last straggler, the midnight hour chasing him away before Brian could.
    â€œAny bigger hint and you’d be hitting me over the head with a hammer you bought down at Ackroyd’s.